“You spend more time with that ghost, Cyn, than you do with me.”
“Oh please, Martin—you know that’s not true. Besides, Reggie prefers to be called a spirit—and he claims he’s not into haunting.”
“Really? Have you taken a good look at this old place lately? It looks like Bella Lugosi’s castle.”
“Shhhh. You know Reggie gets offended when you’re critical about his house.”
Martin rolls his eyes.
“Hah—that’s a good one! Who’s paying the mortgage? Just because he lived here a hundred years ago, doesn’t mean he can still call the shots. He scared the devil out of the Highlanders last month.”
“They went into the east wing—we told them it was off limits. That’s Reggie’s lair.”
“I wish he’d take a nice little apartment in town—Arghh! Why do they have to make tuxedoes so cumbersome?”
“Just to bedevil you, dear.” She helps him do up his collar button and then steps back to admire him.
“You do look smashing in a tux, Love.”
“I’d rather build ten boats than spend ten minutes in one of these monkey suits. Oh damn! —There’s the doorbell—they’re here. Finish up and hurry down, Cyn. We don’t want to keep the Highlanders waiting.”
He hurries off to get the door.
Reggie, the resident ghost reappears.
“Martin didn’t tell you that you look smashing too, my love.”
“Oh, Reggie! How many times have I asked you to announce yourself? You startled me.”
“Sorry, dearest. How’s this?” A small bell tinkles icily.
“Ha ha. Very subtle, Reggie.”
She checks the back of her dress in the mirror.
Reggie admires her form. “Now, look at you—all togged out and looking quite delicious.”
“Reginald,” she frowns, “I warned you about being frisky. You’re a hundred and fifty years old, for heaven’s sake. Try to maintain some decorum!”
“And be like Martin, oblivious to your beauty? Never! I may be a spirit, but I’m not dead.”
She smiles and checks her makeup one last time. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I have a flair for it. I daresay the Highlanders were suitable impressed.”
Cyn frowns her diaapproval.
“Oh, that reminds me. Please refrain from frightening our guests. Emily still won’t come past the foyer. She spent the week recovering from her fright and had to see her analyst.”
“Yes, well that one needs to be analyzed—and as for Harold, her husband—I don’t trust him. He’s a carpetbagger if ever I saw one.”
“Now, Reggie—he’s bringing investment capital into the firm. Martin would be very cross if you do anything to upset him.”
“He’s got an eye for you, you know. I see him sneaking a peek now and then—that lecherous old codger. Tell me—why do bald men insist in over-compensating with facial hair? That walrus moustache of his has to go—he reminds me of a seal. Urg, urg.”
Cyn rolls her eyes. “Very nasty, Reggie. Now, I want you to promise there’ll be no more theatrics.”
“Oh really, dearest! I’m a thespian—you can’t insist on that.”
“Fine, but I want you to behave while they’re around. No more spooking and candles floating through air. Whatever were you thinking?”
“I’d tell you dearest, but it’d just unnerve you. Now, go on and enjoy the opera—you look positively radiant.”
“Thank you, Reggie,” she beams and hurries downstairs to join the others.
Later, at the Amphitheatre Restaurant in Covent Garden, Harold’s putting on a show. He orders a multi-course meal topped off with a flaming baked Alaska. Martin seems duly impressed.
“You certainly appreciate the culinary arts, Harold.”
“Why, thank you Martin. I have no talent in the kitchen myself, but I do consider myself a gourmand. Why don’t you let Emily show you around while I chat with your lovely wife?”
Emily stands and holds out her hand, “Come, Martin—I’ll give you the tour.”
Harold waits till they’re safely out of sight.
“You look fetching in that green dress, my dear. Why don’t you come up to the manor on the weekend? Emily will be in Glasgow with her aunt and Martin’s always got his nose in business—we can tour some of the old castles. What do you say?”
“I think I have an engagement that weekend, Harold, but thanks for the invite.”
Not to be deterred, he devours her with his eyes.
“Martin’s a fool, ignoring your beauty.”
At that moment, a glass of red wine tips off a waiter’s tray and spills over his head and neck.
“You dolt!” Harold springs up, dabbing at his head and the back of his shirt. “Excuse me, Cyn, while I clean up.”
He glowers at the hapless waiter who’s left wondering how a glass of cabernet somehow leapt off his tray.
Cyn hears a voice behind her.
“I warned you about him. Dearest.”
It’s Reggie, hiding near the window curtain.
“Reggie—did you spill that wine on Harold?”
“Of course, dear heart. You know I’m your guardian.”
She giggles. “He did deserve it—the old lecher.”
“Why doesn’t Martin see what he’s up to?”
“He’s too wrapped up in his boat business I suppose. He really needs Harold’s money.”
Just then, Emily and Martin return. Reggie fades into the shadows.
“Where’s Harold?” asks Emily.
Before Cyn can answer, Harold comes back, his tux still damp and the back of his collar bearing a port stain.
“Oh dear,” Emily exclaims.
“Not to worry, Em—I spoke to the Maitre d who apologized profusely and gave us our dinner free.”
“That was quite generous,” Cyn smirks.
“Not really—the dolt of a waiter ruined my Charles Tyrwhitt shirt—I got what I deserved.”
“ I’ll bring the car around,” says Martin, trying to change the subject.
“Why don’t you go with him Em? —I want to show Cyn the view from the terrace.”
Cyn wants to object, but can’t think of a polite excuse. She doesn’t want to go another round with Harold, but Emily and Martin are already in the elevator, leaving her alone with the amorous Mr. Highlander.
She decides she’ll be safer on the crowded terrace.
While they’re waiting, she anxiously keeps looking for Martin’s car—making only polite responses to Harold’s inane chatter.
All of a sudden, Harold is on her crushing her against a table. Cyn screams in fright and the next thing she knows, Martin appears, pulls Harold off her and throws him back onto the pavement.
“I’ve had it with you, Highlander—it’s one thing to ogle my wife, but this time you’ve gone too far—take a cab home.”
He puts a protective arm around Cyn and guides her to the car leaving the Highlanders staring after them in shocked surprise.
When they get home, Cyn goes upstairs to change while Martin makes the drinks.
“That was dramatic, don’t you think?” Reggie’s sitting cross-legged on Cyn's boudoir chair.
“Reggie! I warned you, my boudoir is strictly off limits—just like your apartments.”
“I know dearest—I just wanted you to know it was I who pushed Harold onto you. I saw Martin and Emily looking for you and saw my chance.”
“You caused this incident—Oh, why, Reggie? Now how will Martin keep the business afloat?”
“With this—” he trips a lever and a panel of wainscoting opens. “I had this concealed compartment made for Elise to hide her jewelry—there’s enough value in these jewels to buy the business outright.”
When Cyn tells Martin the news, he chokes on the olive in his martini. She has to pound his back till he recovers his breath.
“You’re telling me a ghost bailed us out?”
“A spirit, Martin—the same one you said wasn’t paying his share.”
He colours. “Well, I guess I owe old Reginald an apology—and some thanks.”
He shakes his head, still in awe at the turn of events.
“I wonder what Harold will do when he hears?”
“He won’t be able to do anything.” Cyn replies, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “He got what he deserved.”
